


A Legacy

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crestwood (Dragon Age), Gen, Solas rivalry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25892773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: Chara Cadash accepts a little help in Crestwood, noticing beauty along the way, but Solas is reluctant.
Relationships: Female Cadash & Solas (Dragon Age)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	A Legacy

Chara Cadash hissed, clapping a palm over the wound in her bicep. She let out a long breath between clenched teeth. The sound of waterfalls drowned out her exhalation, and she hoped, for a moment, that she was safe.

Until Solas approached, his face set in that curious mix of concern and disinterest she had come to define him by.

She sighed, settling back on her haunches besides the campfire. “I’m taking first watch tonight, remember, Solas? You’re allowed to take some rest for yourself. Varric and Blackwall are already asleep.”

He knelt beside her, keeping a respectful distance. “I am aware, Inquisitor.”

“So what brings you from your rest?” She glanced up at the stone-worked harts flanking the waterfalls, the granite glistening from the recent rain. It was good work. Solid. “I would have thought you’d like to see the Fade from here. These monuments must mean something.”

Solas gave her a small smile, one that failed to reach his eyes. “They mean many things. But I cannot sleep when I find my mind uneasy. You’re wounded, Inquisitor.”

“Is that so,” she attempted. Solas merely arched one thin brow at her, and she acquiesced. “All right, then. It’s nothing serious.” The eyebrow arched ever higher. “It’s… just a wyvern bite.”

Solas nodded. “I suspected as much. You do know that wyvern venom can cause permanent damage, I suppose?”

Chara rolled up her sleeve swiftly, her stomach clenching. The wound in her arm already looked nasty, festering with a greenish cast to the surrounding skin. Her stomach swooped. “Well, that’s a fucking lovely surprise, isn’t it? I -- I’d thought it could wait ‘til tomorrow --”

“It should not,” he said. “May I?” He extended a pale hand toward her, palm up.

“We’re out of potions,” said Chara swiftly. “I didn’t want to cause a fuss.”

“Healing was never my greatest talent,” said Solas, fixing his gaze on her wound. “But I do have some small skill in this area. It would not do for you to lose an arm from something as mundane as an untreated wyvern bite.”

She hesitated, staring into his blank face. She had met many people in her time, some honest, some pretending, some believing they were honest but telling lies all the same. Something about Solas often left her feeling odd, unsettled. His fury about the recruitment of the templars had not helped her perception. And yet --

She extended her arm to him. He took it by the wrist, his touch sure but gentle, respectful. Magic slowly swelled around his grip, an aura that tingled through her hand, wrist, forearm, into the bite itself. It was warm but muted, sending soft sparks through flesh and vein.

She looked away. This was not for her: magic was a thing she had learned early on was for humans, elves, Qunari. She knew it didn’t _stick_ the way it did for the other races; knew the mages had to work harder, cleverer, _sneakier_ for their spells to take on dwarves. She didn’t like to make it more difficult for them by staring.

“Very well,” she said stiffly, gazing up at the twin harts. She cast about for something to discuss, something besides the inherent awkwardness of accepting healing from a mage who despised her. “It’s beautiful stonework, isn’t it?”

Solas lifted his gaze from her wound, eyes sliding over the harts amidst the waterfalls. “Mhm.”

“What does it mean to your people?”

A flinch, faint, felt through the grip he maintained on her arm. She gazed at him, perplexed. “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

He let out a soft chuckle. “No. It’s quite all right. But I am not Dalish, Inquisitor, and these were certainly made by Dalish elves.”

“Forgive me,” said Chara. “I’m afraid I never learned much of the elves in the Marches. The city elves had their homes and their trees, but they never made…” She gestured with her good arm. “These meant a great deal, once. You don’t build something to withstand the elements for centuries if it’s meaningless.”

“I expect not,” he said. His magic rustled along her skin, her muscle, veins and nerves. She swallowed, feeling it encase her arm, trying to find the way in. Normally she enjoyed the way magic seemed to _slide_ off of her in battle, but healing magic doing the same had been a great disappointment.

“Do you wonder what they will find of us, centuries on?” Chara asked. Stars twinkled above the stone harts in the deepening twilight. She chuckled. “Look at me. I’ve gone and said _us_. Perhaps _Inquisitor_ is starting to sound familiar.” She let out a long sigh, her arm aching. “I don’t care for it, if I’m to be honest.”

Solas raised his gaze from her wound. “A curious thing for a leader to say.”

“Perhaps,” said Chara. “Then again, it isn’t as if I intended any of this.” She bowed her head. “Thank you, Solas.”

“Your gratitude is appreciated, Inquisitor, but your healing is still in progress.”

“I know,” she said. She flexed her palm and fingers into a clumsy fist. The venom had worked its way deep into her arm, much deeper than she had hoped. The clean sensation of Solas’ healing buzzed beneath the numbness, growing stronger by the moment, and she allowed herself relief. “But I appreciate your healing someone you despise.”

The magic slowly strengthened along the length of her arm, her muscles nearly burning with it. Solas’ grip on her wrist tightened slightly.

“Inq--”

“You disagreed with me about the templars,” said Chara. “I understand. I thought magic gone awry required a certain solution. You felt differently.” She pulled her arm back from him, only a mild ache still present in her bicep. Her hand tightened into a fist, then relaxed, a faint tremor running through the fingers. 

“Your dexterity should return within the day,” said Solas, ignoring her last. “You are welcome.” He inclined his head towards hers in something like a shortened bow, then got to his feet. 

“Solas,” she said sharply. He turned back to her, tension keen in the set of his shoulders.

“ _Yes_?”

“The harts beneath the moonlight,” she said, pointing with her healed arm. It shivered only slightly, a great improvement. He looked to follow her outstretched fingers.

Beneath the parted clouds, the moonlight danced upon the harts, hidden moonstone shimmering deep in their fine-carved eyes. Splendid opalescent shimmers flashed in blue and white, a calculated choreography illuminating the silent grove.

Chara studied the patterns of their shining eyes, certainty thrumming within her. “This was carved with a harvest moon in mind,” she said. “The angle of the light -- it wouldn’t create a luminescence with a normal full moon, not with how deep-set the eyes have been carved. It’s inspired work. Meant to last for many, many seasons.”

Beside her, Solas stood tall and still, hands loosely clasped behind him, eyes bright in the moonlight. “A legacy,” he murmured.

“Yes,” said Chara. “They were meant to be seen. The question is, what were they meant to say?”

Solas’s lips curled up, a small, subtle motion, and this time, the lines at his eyes narrowed in a genuine smile. “They speak a promise, Inquisitor.”

“A promise for what?” she asked. The moonlight sparkled on the surface of the pond, sparkled deep in the harts’ gray eyes.

“For another day.”

**Author's Note:**

> I usually side with mages, but siding with templars does get to some different sides of key characters, and it's fascinating digging into them a bit.


End file.
